


Ewoks, Homosexual Stimulation, and Captain Picard

by marshmallowmars



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Dollhouse
Genre: Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallowmars/pseuds/marshmallowmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Topher Brink and Andrew Wells meet at Comic-Con, and sparks begin to fly. Andrew's totally smitten, but Topher refuses to accept that he's not straight. Will Andrew be able to get Topher to open up before they have to go back to their separate lives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time Off

Andrew Wells took a deep breath and did his best to gather his courage. Although Buffy was just his boss now instead of his arch nemesis, she still made his palms sweat, especially with her Slayer, could-snap-a-nerd-like-a-twig powers and all that. Making Buffy mad was pretty much number one on his not-to-do list. But today, he was asking Buffy for a huge favor, and it was absolutely vital that she didn't turn him down.

He saw her out on the back lawn **,** training the Potentials, or the Slayerettes, as he'd privately begun calling them. He opened the back door and walked straight up to Buffy, who was right in the middle or teaching one of the girls a jump kick move, or something equally badass.

"Hey Buffy!" he said a little too loudly, causing Buffy to jump and spin around, putting him in a chokehold. Luckily, she hadn't been holding a stake at the time, or Andrew probably would have acquired an unfortunately placed puncture wound.

When she saw Andrew's face, she let out a sigh of relief, but still didn't let go. "Seriously, Andrew? Could you not interrupt me when I'm slaying, even if it's simulated, please?"

Still in the hold, Andrew nodded, his face turning red. "You look stunning today, Buffy; are those new nunchucks?"

She let him out of the hold abruptly and he fell onto the grass. Instead of sputtering on the ground as Buffy expected him to do, Andrew simply popped right back up, nonchalantly massaging his neck. "Sorry about that, boss. Could I possibly speak with you…in private?" He waggled his eyebrows, and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine. Girls, practice that move I just showed you. Denise, watch out for the other girls' teeth. I'll be back in a sec."

Buffy grabbed his elbow and pulled him to the side of the house, her face still full of annoyance. She threw his arm back to his side and put her hands on her hips. "What do you need, Andrew?"

Andrew could feel his shield of suave disintegrating. Buffy sure got annoyed when she was interrupted pre-slay. "I…well, the house is super crowded, right? I was thinking, maybe if I left for a few days, say from July 12th through the 15th, it would give everybody a little more room to kick and punch and—"

Suddenly, Buffy's eyes lit up. "Oh my god! You're asking for time off so you can go to Comic-Con, aren't you? Xander's been bugging me about letting him go ever since it was invented."

At that very moment, Xander bounded up to the pair like an excited puppy. "Did somebody just say the magic words?" he asked. When both of them looked at him with blank stares, he said, "Comic-Con?" Andrew nodded excitedly, and Xander's eyes got huge. "I knew it! Please, Buffy, can we go? Get some time away from the female invasion?"

"No. Nope, not gonna happen. Guys, this is ridiculous." As she said this, both of their faces fell, leaving Buffy scrambling. "We're thick in the fight with The First! With two of my best friends away, it would be a perfect time for him to strike. Or even worse, he could go to your little nerdfest, kill you, and then come back and pretend to be you!"

Andrew's eyes practically gleamed with joy. "Buffy…I'm…I'm one of your best friends?"

"So not the point," she said. "Guys, we're the real-life superheroes. Hell, you're living the lives of one of the superheroes you worship, and you don't even have to wear your underwear over your clothes to do it! You guys don't have to go see old guys dressed in spandex pretending to be Superman or whatever."

"Buffyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy," Andrew whined, pouting his lip. "Nothing's happened with The First in like, a month. If he's taking a break, why can't we?"

"You guys can give us big bear hugs when we walk in the door, and call us all the time to do a not-dead check," Xander said, trying to appeal to his friend's reasonable side. "Plus, with pretty much all of the guys out of the house, you guys can do all kinds of girly stuff like bawl your eyes out watching _Titanic_ and complain about us leaving the seat up or whatever. Come on, Buff."

Buffy sighed, and both boys looked at each other with enormous grins. They knew their fearless leader's thick skin was softening. "Fine," she said, and both boys started to dance around like the complete idiots they were. "But. Both of you are gonna call Willow or I and check in with us every 12 hours. If you guys are so much as an hour late, I will not hesitate to send in a troupe of potentials to kick every fanboy's ass until we find you."

"Buffy, you're the best boss ever!" Andrew said, forgetting his dignity and hugging Buffy around the waist. "And you're one of my best friends, too," he whispered to her

Buffy grinned, showing the boys a side of her that they hadn't seen in weeks. "Well, shouldn't you boys go get packed?"

At that, both of them turned around and ran as fast as they could to the house to pack up their energy drinks, comic books, and Star Wars t-shirts before their fearless leader changed her mind.

* * *

Topher Brink had been trying to convince himself to leave the Dollhouse for over a month now. He'd always been pro-indoors, but was starting to realize that his aversion to the outdoors was bordering on agoraphobia. So when he heard that Patrick Stewart, pretty much the suavest guy in literally the universe, would be attending San Diego Comic-Con, he knew he had to brave the sunshine and unsafe driving statistics and haul his ass over there. Adelle gave all of the Dollhouse employees three days off per year, in case their parents suddenly dropped dead or an employee got the bubonic plague or California broke away from the United States and fell into the ocean or something, and since none of those scenarios were particularly likely, he planned to use them for his excursion. The only hitch was whether he would be able to convince Adelle that he was doing something important enough to take time off work.

He strode into her office, putting up his air of cockiness. "Adelle, I'm thinking I'm going to take my vacation days this weekend," he said. Maybe there was less of a chance that she'd say no if he didn't phrase it like a question.

Adelle turned from her Little Shop of Booze and gave him the look that pretty much felt like a particle gun, ripping him down to his atoms. "Topher, we do have several engagements planned during that time. May I ask what is so urgent as to keep you from your duties?"

He cleared his throat, putting on his Master Scientist look. "I happen to be going to the premiere biological engineering conference in all of—"

Adelle gave him another look, this time taking her blaster from stun to kill. "Topher, kindly avoid wasting my time."

He sighed, hoping his honesty wouldn't screw things up, as it usually did. "I'm going to San Diego for their Comic-Con. You know, superheroes, Star Trek, hot girls in spandex... It would be nice to play with some people who aren't effectively my imaginary friends for a change." He hesitated for a second, and then added, "Pretty please?"

Adelle sighed, pouring more amber liquid into her already almost full glass. "Are you sure Ivy is ready to handle the kind of responsibility you'd be giving her?"

"That's what I've been training her for, right? In case I turn all Doctor Evil or get killed when Echo finally decides to snap? Think of it as a test run, cept I'm still around to clean up whatever mess she makes."

There was a pause, during which Topher was sure that Adelle would tell him in the most British way possible that there was no way that they could afford to lose him at such a peak time. But then something happened that he wasn't expecting.

"I suppose we could probably do without you for a short time, as long as you have your phone on your person at all times," Adelle said, and Topher had to stop himself from letting out a very girlish squeal. "In addition, if Ivy has any sort of issue, you must be willing to return here as soon as possible, as an active's life could depend on it."

"Of course, aye aye, captain. But wait, you're actually letting me go?" Topher asked, his brow knit. This was not the hard-ass boss he was used to, even the one who had a bit of a soft spot for him.

"In all honesty, Topher, I'm just glad for something that can get you out of the Dollhouse. It doesn't really matter to me whether it's a family obligation or a movie premiere or even a comic convention in San Diego. You've been cooped up in here far too long, and the last thing I need is our principle programmer going crazy and pulling an Alpha."

She had a point. Topher hadn't been out of the Dollhouse since the premiere of _The Phantom Menace_ , and from the second Jar Jar Binks appeared on the screen, he wished he'd stayed at home in his little crawlspace and just illegally downloaded it. However, the theater had been only about five minutes away, and he was now asking for permission to take a two and a half hour drive to another city. Which reminded him.

"Also, if I were to ask to take a car, you would say…?"

Adelle laughed. "It's fine, Topher. Have a lovely time."

"Thank you, Adelle," he said, shaking her hand and keeping his attitude as composed as he could. However, when he got out into the hallway, he broke out into a happy dance. "Comic-Con," he whispered, beaming, "here I come."


	2. To Boldly Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew, Xander, and Topher make their way to the con, but getting there is harder than Topher anticipated.

Topher stood about five feet away from the red four-door that bore the same license plate number as the pink copy of the form he held in his hand. He’d been standing there for just short of twenty minutes, so close to the car, but unable to close the gap. He willed his feet to move, but they remained planted on the ground.

He wasn’t ready for this. Even the weight of the car key in his pocket sped up his breathing.

Adele would be disappointed when he came back and handed her the key. However, she’d be expecting it, which perhaps stung more. She’d clap him on the shoulder, tell him about the house’s next assignment, and everything would be just as he’d left it.

He knew, logically, that the probability of something bad happening to him in the few days he’d be vulnerable was fairly low. Only a 1 in 303 chance he’d end up dying in a car accident, or 1 in 306 he’d die from a gunshot wound. But when you started to add all of those probabilities up—a 1 in 131 chance he’d die from a fall, 1 in 148,756 it would be an earthquake, 1 in 84,079 there would be lightning involved—they started to feel insurmountable. And his lungs started to feel like they were ready to turn to dust.

He tried to think of the best time he’d have, in either scenario. If he stayed at the dollhouse, he’d do a bit more work today, probably do a couple of wipes after assignments, and then all of the actives would be put in their creepy pods and all of his coworkers would go home. He’d probably stay up late watching a few episodes of _Next Gen_ or _The X-Files_. He’d make some Easy Mac, drink a juice box or two, and go to sleep. Nothing exceptional, but it did have a certain comfort to it, even a warmness. And he was almost to the first part of “The Best of Both Worlds” in his rewatch, which he’d seen countless times, but its ending never failed to slacken his jaw.

If he went, there was a chance he’d be able to meet his Captain Picard, in the flesh. Maybe he could even shake his hand. He would settle for breathing air in the same building as Patrick Stewart, honestly, and maybe the bonus of spotting him through a buffer of security guards walking the convention floor.

Topher had watched _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ obsessively as a young teenager, and he’d be lying if he said that it had had no bearing in his choice to enter the STEM fields. The fact that the Enterprise had had no real science officer in _Next Gen_ always bugged him—everyone always tried to tell him that Data was the science officer, but no no no; Data was the chief _operations_ officer who sometimes did science officer-y things—and he’d imagined himself in a chafing blue jumpsuit, picking fights about engineering with Wesley Crusher and eventually being allowed at the crew’s poker nights.

The Dollhouse wasn’t a Federation starship, but it was the closest thing he’d found.

He tried to imagine what he’d say, if he were to be in the Captain’s presence, but all he could see were lots of sporadic, excited hand gestures and Stewart’s nods, a slight amused smile on his face. He would be very gracious, and British, and Topher would never be able to stop bragging about it.

And if he went to Comic-Con, he’d be able to get some new collectibles, some even that were convention exclusives. He’d never even _considered_ getting convention exclusives. And there were definitely panels he’d like to go to; he’d have to settle for transcripts or shaky camera.

And what would Captain Picard do, if confronted with the same choice? What would a science officer do? Surely, they would explore new worlds, go where no man had gone before. Or at least, go where _this_ man hadn’t gone before. Baby steps.

He started to move forward, stepping quickly on the concrete floor of the parking garage, almost hopping across it. His movements were sporadic, definitely nervous, but he was able to make it to the car and throw his luggage into the backseat.

He collapsed into the driver’s seat, trying to forget that it had been years since he’d been behind the wheel of a car (which would probably increase that 1 in 303 projection in a way that was statistically significant). He started listing the crew members of all of the incarnations of _Star Trek_ in his head, focusing on ensuring that no one was left behind, and before he had a chance to start panicking again, he was already getting on the highway.

* * *

“Are we almost there yet?” Andrew whined from the passenger seat. He looked up from his Gameboy screen.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Xander asked, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “We literally just got on the highway. We _just_ passed the ‘Now Leaving Sunnydale’ sign.”

“But how much _longer_?” Andrew asked. “I’m almost to the Elite Four already. I’ve been playing this game for days.”

Xander sighed. “About three and a half hours, not counting the stops I’m sure you’re going to want to make.”

Andrew perked up. “Speaking of, we should stop for Slurpees.”

“No.”

“Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t like to have a Slurpee in your hand right now? If I summoned a Slurpee demon _right now_ , you wouldn’t let him make you one even if he _insisted_?”

“Don’t summon a Slurpee demon. Wait…do they have those?”

Andrew shook his head, looking morose. “I have tried, but alas. The darker realms seem to be devoid of their frozen goodness.”

“So that whole scenario was pointless.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But are you thinking about Slurpees?”

Xander chuckled, almost despite himself. He glanced over at Andrew, who was looking at him entirely good-naturedly, a small smile on his face.

“Okay,” Xander said. “Let’s get a little more road behind us, and maybe then—just _maybe_ —we can make a pit stop.”

And then he turned on the radio, hoping to silence any further complaints from the passenger seat.

* * *

Topher couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he’d made it. He was pulling up to the hotel that the GPS had graciously showed him to. He’d only nearly gotten into a couple of accidents, hadn’t even pulled off the road to have a panic attack once.

He’d tried to listen to NPR or something slightly edifying while he was driving, but he couldn’t concentrate on it at all. So he’d ended up leaving on the poppiest station he could find. Although he’d definitely give a treatment to anyone who found out, he knew every word to _Genie in a Bottle_ and _A Thousand Miles_ , and belting them unabashedly made him feel like he was back in his lab, burritoed up in a blanket, not speeding down the highway in a relatively unsafe metal tube.

He dragged his luggage up to the front doors, suddenly conscious of the fact that this place was distinctly _different_. He didn’t know which restaurants that “didn’t deliver” would suddenly change their policy when he promised to tip the kid on the phone a $50 bill; he didn’t know the color of the comforter he’d be sleeping under; he didn’t even have Adelle or one of the dolls around to act as a moving security blanket, however thin. There would be people here he was not familiar with, and he had no computer or instrument panel to hide behind.

He made his way to the check-in desk and handed his ID and the confirmation he’d printed out over silently to its attendant, trying to keep himself from pacing back and forth while he waited for the man to hand him his key. He had definitely used up all of his spoons for the day already, and he was sure he looked exhausted and vaguely deranged.

The man behind the counter finished typing on his computer and looked up at Topher. “Alright, Mr. Brink. You’re in room 622; just take the elevator up to the sixth floor and take a left.” He handed Topher the key, and he immediately left the desk; he heard the man say, “Enjoy your stay?” after him.

The room was small. This made him anxious, but he was starting to feel like an anxiety-based life form, so he wasn’t sure any other room in any other hotel would have been better. He tore open his suitcase and extracted the three Ziploc freezer bags he had placed at the top of the suitcase.

He immediately opened them and began to arrange the action figures and collectibles they contained. The spread looked much better on a mantle or a nice shelf, but the desk would have to do.

Until they were perfect, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Something about having Wonder Woman, Gandalf, and the whole gang watching over him with their painted-on eyes could make a hotel room a home base, at least for a while.

Adelle had actually thought of the idea after he came knocking on her bedroom door at 4 a.m. on one of his excursions out of the dollhouse about three years prior. She had insisted that she would not permit Topher to sleep on her floor for another trip, and had suggested that he try to “establish a familiarity through cherished objects.” He’d been skeptical, but his figures had provided just enough comfort to help him fall into a semi-restful sleep.

Topher stood back, biting his lip, appraising his spread. He moved forward a couple of times, inching Lara Croft a bit to the left, moving Spider-man’s arms just so, and finally, it was perfect.

He stared at it for several moments, trying to imagine the shelf he had the figures on at home, what surrounded it, the minute details. There were some cartoons playing softly on a television to its right, a stack of comic books on an end table.

Setting his alarm for six—he hadn’t come all this way to sleep in and miss panels—he lay down in bed, closing his eyes while still trying to visualize the room he had left.

* * *

Andrew threw his duffel bag on the floor and pounced on one of the twin beds, the mattress springs sending him into the air. “We get our own beds!” Andrew beamed.

With all of the new slayers in Buffy’s house for the past few weeks, Andrew had been lucky to get a properly-sized sliver of the floor and a blanket. Xander tried to look nonchalant, but couldn’t hide the smile from his face either, and once he set his duffel down, he sprawled out on the bed, his arms and legs outstretched like a starfish.

“This is nice,” he said, closing his eyes. They lay there for a few minutes, not talking, simply appreciating the new space, devoid of superpowered girls they had to try not to trip over.

“When should we get up tomorrow?” Xander asked, stifling a yawn.

Andrew sat up and headed over to the backpack he’d thrown down by the door. He opened it up and took out two binders. One was a bright purple, the other teal, and they both had several organizer tabs sticking out of them. Andrew handed Xander the teal one.

“Panels start at 10, and we’ll have to walk there, and you need a shower.” Xander tried to nonchalantly sniff his own armpit and failed. “So, if we want to make sure we get in, we should be there at about…”

He trailed off, ticking numbers off on his fingers. He picked up his binder and flipped through it for a short time before looking up at Xander.

“We’ll wake up at six.” His voice was authoritative. “That’ll get us to the convention hall no later than seven-fifteen, hopefully in line before seven-thirty. We won’t be near the front, obviously, but—”

“I’ve been driving all day, so I might just sleep in a bit,” Xander said. “I could probably just meet you there?”

Andrew laughed. “Ohhh…no,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You’re about as likely to find me in the middle of the convention floor as you are to find Beyoncé. We’re in this together from the beginning, or we must fight our battles alone.”

“I didn’t know we were planning to go to war. I would have worn different shoes.”

Andrew waited for Xander to tell him that maybe it’d be best if they went solo. He couldn’t blame him. He knew that Xander wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about taking him in anything but small doses, and con trekking together was about as close to an overdose as you could get.

But after some consideration, Xander nodded. “Okay.  Six it is, then. As long as we can make a pit stop for some energy drinks or cocaine or something.”

Andrew beamed. He missed a beat, during which he felt a little bit warm and fuzzy, thinking that maybe Xander didn’t want to hit him over the head with a heavy book _all_ the time.

And then he was back at 70 miles per hour. “The schedule is in that binder, along with a checklist of what to bring and the vendor map.

“We’ve exchanged enough pop culture references that I was pretty sure I knew your Must See’s. Let me know if there’s something I missed; I might be able to sneak it in. I’ve highlighted the panels we should definitely get into, and some that we could try for if the lines aren’t too long. I even penciled in a couple of bathroom breaks!”

Xander flipped through the binder, his eyes bugging out a bit. “Well that’s…thorough,” he said.

Andrew waited as Xander looked through it for a couple of minutes. Just when he was starting to worry, Xander asked, “What’s this huge gap tomorrow night? Aren’t there panels then?”

Andrew almost had to catch his breath. “That’s when our great Sir Patrick Stewart is signing. We’ll have to wait in line for hours, but we will be rewarded tenfold for our perseverance.”

Xander seemed to try to figure out who this guy was. “He’s Professor X, right?”

“Most recently,” Andrew said. “And Captain Picard.” He said this in an airy voice, followed by a dreamy sigh.

“Are you _swooning_ right now?”

“No!” Andrew said, defensive. “Just admiring. Male comradery high-five congrats-on-the-abs admiring.”

Xander cocked an eyebrow, but he left it.

The two boys began readying themselves for bed, Xander pounding on the bathroom door, accusing Andrew of taking way too long, Andrew insisting on plugging in the night light he’d brought. And long after Xander started snoring, Andrew lay awake, visions of merchandise and _Star Trek_ characters dancing in his head.


End file.
